


Into Battle

by AbinayaisFabulous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Ficlet, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-31 13:33:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8580484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbinayaisFabulous/pseuds/AbinayaisFabulous
Summary: Tomorrow is the wedding. The excuse of a day so that two people who already live together can continue living together. Sentiment. Sherlock should hate it. He shouldn't be depressed that John will no longer be with him. But his heart hurts and his walls are crumbling. He's a soldier preparing for a battle he knows he's going to lose.
**Based on the scene with Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson at the beginning if TSOT**





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! First fanfic I've ever written so suggestions would be lovely! I got the dialogue from . Enjoy!

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut tighter, trying desperately to burry himself in John's lingering scent. He was sitting curled up in John's chair desperately trying to block out the real world. He knew it was late but he didn't need to know how late. It would only serve as a reminder of the minuets counting down to John's wedding. Sherlock relented, rolling over, he looked at the clock. 5am. He had read and reread his speech editing and re-writing parts of it till it was perfect. Which was ridiculous because perfection was subjective. Instead, correcting himself, it would be perfect for John. This whole wedding needed to be perfect for John, because the only thing that hurt more than the pain in his heart was the hurt in John's eyes. Mary might be a liar but for now she was giving John the life he craved and that for Sherlock was the lesser of the two evils. He sighed, as much as he hated his transport he knew he needed to sleep. He flopped down on the couch closing his eyes with a twinge of his heart. His missed the days when John would come home late from the surgery and criticize him gently to sleep. There would be no more of that now, no matter what Mary said. She would never understand, even Sherlock barely understood what it meant. The pain in his chest. The only thing he knew is that he'd only have to deal with it for one more day, then he could push it away, smother it with other substances. He closed his eyes retreating to his mind palace but, no matter how hard he tried he kept reverting back to John. He saw moments flash past behind his eyelids, from their first diner at Angelo's and every case that followed. Like an old movie real, some with more clarity than others and each one causing his heart to race a bit faster, until he was barely breathing. He gasped for a breath that wasn't coming. Trying to open his eyes, vision swimming, he felt beads of cold sweat drip from his damp forehead. His whole body was shaking. His transport was giving into his heart. God, shameful, next thing you know he might start crying. He could hear Mycroft's voice in the background, "caring is not an advantage Sherlock". He focused, using every ounce of his willpower he calmed his racing heart and took a deep breath steadying himself against the dark emotions that threatened to break free. As his vision refocused he stood up as tall as he could and brushed away any stray tears that may have lingered. Pressing play on the audio player. Sherlock methodically began to waltz around the room. He stopped mid-step, it wasn’t right. Restarting the music he tried again but the problem repeated. He groaned in frustration, taking a deep breath he tried once more. This time he closed his eyes. Lifting his arms he felt John warmth engulf and he waltzed in time to the melody. The sounds of steps outside his door broke the trance. He opened his eyes and glanced over his shoulder at Mrs. Hudson standing in the doorway. The changes in her expression told Sherlock that she was formulating a question. One which he probably did not hat the answer to.  
"Shut up, Mrs. Hudson." He said instead.  
"I haven’t said a word." she protested.  
Sherlock sighed stopping his waltz mid-step again, "You’re formulating a question. It’s physically painful watching you thinking."  
"I thought it was you playing."   
Was she blind too? He gestured to the player on the table, "It was me playing." Sherlock grabbed the remote and shut the player off as he corrected a measure in the third line. "I am composing." He clarified. Mrs. Hudson placed the tray on the side table next John's chair-no, no, the other chair. That was no longer John's chair Sherlock reminded himself.   
"You were dancing." she pointed out. He knew the true meaning behind that statement and instead opted for a bland response, "I was road-testing". He could probably hear her thoughts whirring in her slow brain. Sherlock didn't engages in frivolous activities like making small talk or dancing or anything with emotion. She was right and yet Mrs. Hudson had constantly pointed out that somewhere in the cavity of his chest there was a beating heart that had emotions. Which was completely absurd in Sherlock's opinion, as the heart was an organ that was anywhere near to the advanced functions of nervous system that was actually responsible for emotions. Yet these frivolous emotions were with almost certainty responsible for the ache in his chest.   
Frustrated, he threw his pen down, "Why are you here?"   
She calmly began pouring the milk, "I'm bringing you your morning tea. You're not usually awake"  
Sherlock sat in his chair, "You bring me tea in the morning?"  
" Well, where d’you think it came from?" she asked, slightly exasperated.  
"I don’t know. I just thought it sort of happened." He replied.  
Mrs. Hudson picked up a cup and saucer and handed it to him saying, "Your mother has a lot to answer for".  
Sherlock took a sip, "Mm, I know. I have a list. Mycroft has a file."  
Mrs. Hudson simply giggled in response and sat down in the chair across from him, "So- it's the big day then!" she announced excitedly. Sherlock's heart almost stopped. He sipped his tea since words were impossible. Fighting to get his emotions in check he replied, "What big day?"  
Mrs. Hudson seemed exasperated. "The wedding! John and Mary getting married!"  
"Two people who currently live together are about to attend church, have a party, go on a short holiday and then carry on living together. What’s big about that?"  
"It changes people, marriage." she mused.  
Sherlock pretended to think for a minute, "Mmm, no it doesn’t."  
"Well, you wouldn’t understand 'cause you always live alone.", He knew she hadn't meant the proclamation with any negative intent but it hurt nonetheless. It was after all why John had and would always pick Mary over him. So he resorted to his normal tactics, "Your husband was executed for double murder. You’re hardly an advert for companionship." He drank his tea satisfied.   
But Mrs. Hudson was relentless, "Marriage changes you as a person, in ways that you can’t imagine."  
"As does lethal injection." He smiled pointedly at her.   
"My best friend, Margaret – she was my chief bridesmaid." Oh God, there was getting sentimental. There was no stopping her now. He placed his cup on the table and rolled his eyes. Hoping she would get the message.  
"We were going to be best friends forever, we always said that; but I hardly saw her after that." She didn't.  
Sherlock stood up, "Aren’t there usually biscuits?"  
"I’ve run out."  
"Have the shops?" he walked to the door. She ignored him.  
"I’m sure the shop on the corner is open." He said. She continued to ignore him and talk.  
"Mmm. Anyway, you’ve got things to do."  
"No, not really. I’ve got plenty of time to …"  
Sherlock cut her of sternly, "Biscuits."  
She tutted walking to the door, "I really am going to have a word with your mother."  
"You can if you like. She understands very little." He replied following her out. He closed the door behind her and turned around. His eyes fell on John's chair. The pang in his chest was killing him. He felt the beginnings of a sob coming on. Pausing, he collected himself, "Right then". Briskly, he turned, walked through the kitchen towards his bedroom. He stood in front of his wardrobe, the suit hanging on the open door. He took off his dressing gown. With a determined face he looked at the suit and readied himself. He felt like a soldier preparing for a battle he knew he was going to lose. But with a determination, that was very John-like, he pushed forward.  
"Into battle"


End file.
